White Cross
by ushankalove
Summary: 17 year old Kyle Broflovski is determined to stick by Stan's side after an accident involving the death of one of Stan's clients. The two hit the road, but nothing can prepare them for the challenges they face ahead, and the lessons they will learn.
1. Waiting

WHITE CROSS

WHITE CROSS

CHAPTER ONE

Anytime now. I know he'll arrive here eventually, but I'm starting to have doubts. It's already 9:30 for fucks sake, 30 minutes later than he usually is, and by usually I mean always. That asshole, maybe he just had a hang up with one of his clients, which wouldn't surprise me considering they're all a bunch of dysfunctional destitute pieces of ghetto shit. Maybe I shouldn't stereotype, I mean hell, I'm a Jew, and maybe I'm a pot calling the pot a kettle. Or the kettle black, or whatever the hell that stupid saying is. I have other things to worry about than some retarded saying about a kettle.

Stan's not the type of person to let anything come in the way of a deadline. Christ, he's the most time conscious person I know, a pretty significant feat for a druggie. Well, I shouldn't call him a druggie, he's claimed to be clean for what will be a year this May, but being in the business he's in, I must imagine he'd have some slip ups. Even so, I've never considered Stan Marsh in the same class of people whom are his clientele. He's a smart guy, and he's always had that "no-bullshit" approach to people I've just never been able to pull off successfully.

Even though he's a dealer, something he knows I'm adamantly against, I still have more respect for him than most people. It's been three years since he smoked his first joint, er, I should say, many joints, but any change in him I attribute to just normal teenage boy "coming of age." Sure, he'd gone onto experimenting and becoming an expert in harder drugs, but he was still the same boy I'd known my entire life. He knows it'd take something a hell of a lot bigger than drugs to take him down. I had agreed. Now I wasn't so sure.

I peer out the window of my room for what feels like the thousandth time. The rain is pounding louder now, creating an eerie din that in any other situation I'd take a strange form of comfort in. My eyes follow the ripples of water as they skim over the street, which has now morphed into a turbulent lake of muddy water and leaves. The sky is a yellowish gray, with little light making it through the opaque mass overhead. I look out to the small but relatively well groomed houses that line the neighborhood street. Branches and other debris lay scattered across the road, and I see Mrs. Philip's garden pergola fallen over and broken across her garden. I can tell her prized whatever-the-fuck they are helplessly toppled, with wicker fragments lying strewn across her yard. I find myself snickering, and then telling myself not to take pleasure in this miserable old bag's misfortune. Then I think of how in the whole 17 years of my living here, she's been nothing but a saggy old cunt to me who'd yell at me from her porch for playing hockey in the streets while blasting Nirvana from my portable boom box. She never did appreciate the 90's. Bitch. Yeah, I hope your flowers drown.

My stomach just got this sinking feeling again. I check my phone, and it's been a whopping two minutes since I checked it last. What's the fucking deal here. He had a couple clients to visit, and then he was supposed to come straight here to crash for the night like he always does. Maybe he stopped by his house to get some things, but I doubt it. He's been kicked out of his house for almost three months, I'm pretty sure anything he would have needed he would have gotten already. Well, he wasn't technically "kicked out," more like he decided he couldn't tolerate the idiocy of his parents and sister and just up and left. The kid has balls man, that's for sure.

I see headlights on the corner of Clarik and Hooper st. I can vaguely distinguish the blue outline of a medium sized car, and for a moment I hold my breath in eager apprehension that maybe it could be Stan's Buick. I feel my stomach plummet again as I realize it's not, but instead some blond lady talking on a cell phone in a faggy ass Pontiac. Ok, now I really want to see Stan. Fucktard needs to get his ass out of the storm.

I jump at the sound of the television screeching a weather advisory for Park County Colorado. I ignore the monotone voice droning on about wind speeds over 60 mph and golf ball sized hail. They've been flashing that warning every ten minutes for the past 2 consecutive hours. I glance at the radar, and I see our little town of South park about to be engulfed by a massive red, yellow and green blob. Just fan-fucking-tastic. Stan better get home soon. God forbid something happens to him.

More lights on the corner. I wipe away the fog from my window, trying to distinguish what I hope is his car through the torrential rain. It is, and I feel a weight being sucked out of me. Maybe I'll save my bitching for later. Besides, I'm just glad my best friend is ok. I run downstairs to the small foyer and wait by the door and sigh. Thank god.

The door flings open before I have a chance to make it more than halfway down the stairs. In front of me stands a very soggy and winded Stan Marsh.

I want to yell and him and at the same time give him a big hug, (Not like a gay hug but like one of those guy hugs) but I'm feeling such a jumble of emotions that the only thing I manage to articulate is "Dude.."

"You're parents home?" His voice is unnervingly urgent, and I already know something is wrong. And not just wrong, like, "I'm in shit up to my eyeballs" wrong. I inspect him closer, and under his matted black bangs I see his bright blue eyes are wide and darting and his face is flushed. He's never looked this way, not that I can remember. He's always been able to keep a level head under even the harshest situations. I brace myself for the unexpected and get ready to ask the inevitable.

"Why? What's going on? And no, they're not home, they're at some school function with Ike. And what the hell does it matter?" I'm stammering.  
"Listen Kyle, I gotta get out of here. They're gonna find me if I stay here too long."  
I don't like the way he says "they."  
"Dude, what're you talking about? We can't go out, if you haven't noticed it's storming like a mofo out there. And who's they?" Ew, my palms are sweating now, and I can feel my heart pounding in just about every one of my appendages.

"Dude, no time. I gotta go like now, I just need to grab some money so I can get by the next couple days." I watch him dart over to the drawer and pull out an envelope where he stashes some financial reserves-about 200 if I'm correct, and then rush back towards the door. I'm not sure what to think right now.  
I grab him by the shoulder as he reaches for the knob trying to make an exit. He's one of those guys that if he wants to do something, he'll do it. If he really tries to leave I don't have a snowball's chance in hell in stopping him.  
"Wait. So you can't explain anything to me?" I'm desperate.  
"You don't get it do you. I have to leave now. I'll call you tonight and fill you in."  
Hell no. I'm not going to settle for that. Time to acknowledge my impulsive side.  
"I'll come with you." I blurt. "I'll get my coat." Stan stares at me for a moment, probably trying to decipher if I was being serious or not. "Christ. You don't know what you're getting yourself into Kyle."

I know I don't. But my mind has switched gears, and the adrenaline is pumping. Maybe it's the current atmosphere with the wind howling and the thunder crashing like a rock concert, but I feel like taking a risk. "Go out in the car, I'll be out in 30 seconds."  
"Make it twenty." Stan slams the door shut behind him, and I see him through the window making a mad dash out to his  
'84 Regal. This doesn't feel right.


	2. The Bitter Truth

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

I grab my fake army bag with a red cross emblazoned over an olive green background. I love this thing, it's been with me since I was a freshman, and over the past three years it has accumulated about 50 different pins and patches of my favorite metal bands. If any one thing represents me, it's this bag. It's seen the good times, the bad times, the retarded times…man, this thing is a relic of my past.

I stuff an extra t-shirt and pair of sweatpants in to it, as well as a 50 bill off my dresser. I look back into my room before turning off the lights, and something tells me I won't be seeing it for awhile.

I run out the front door trying to shield my red hair from the rain. It's hard to feel bad ass with a rain induced red jew-fro. I fiddle with the passenger side door handle until I realize it's locked. Makes sense, if I were Stan I'd lock my car too. I tap the window a couple times, and when Stan reaches over and unlocks my door, I do an awkward flop into the seat, disheveled and soggy. Before I have a chance to say anything, he slams it into reverse and does some kind of crazy backwards drift into the street, then puts the hammer down and we're gone. I find myself wishing I'd gotten a better look at my house before I left.

Before I know it, we're almost at the turnpike that takes us out of South Park. We've gotta be pushing 70 mph. Stan's reckless like that, not just with driving but life in general. Yet I've always felt safe riding with him despite some of his asinine stunts.  
It takes me a second to gather my thoughts, and I let out a sigh. I notice I'm breathing heavy still. Shit, I don't think I grabbed my inhaler. I could always borrow Stan's seeing that he never uses it. I don't know how an asthmatic can smoke like he does, er..did.

It sounds like a train is running over our car the rain is so loud. Looking over at Stan, I expect him to say something. His eyes are glued on the road, and I'm unnerved by his serious countenance. I can't think of the last time I was in his car without Motley Crue or System of a Down blasting out of the speakers. I can tell he doesn't want to explain whatever's happened, but it feels like he's almost waiting for me to ask. So I take the bait.  
"So...what gives dude?" Shit, maybe that was too casual for this situation. Oh well, I've already thrown it out there, better to just roll with it.  
Five…ten. Fifteen seconds. Still no answer. Stan's expression hasn't changed, and I slump back into my seat a little. I can't say this situation is awkward, nothing's ever really been awkward between us in the past 17 years we've known each other, but I still feel like maybe I should have waited a little longer before saying anything.  
I look down at my sopping wet converse, then back at Stan. His solid expression has softened a little and, oh my god I think I see a tear. Stan…crying? Whoa, this is serious. Ok, I lied, this situation is truly awkward.

"Kyle." His voice is cracking. "Today I killed someone."  
Did, I just hear that right? Wait, what…what….oh god, my mind, I think it just imploded. He didn't just say that. He couldn't have said that. Stan, killing someone? But…just..no…oh god. Where's my voice. I need to say something, but I can't find my voice.  
"Huh?!" Is all I'm able to verbalize.  
"I didn't mean to. It, it was self defense, kind of. I was making a deal, and the man just ran out in front of my car and he had a gun. I just floored it, and he went under. I…oh god."  
"You…you killed someone! Stan..you murdered someone. Holy shit dude!" I can't quite tell, but I think I'm crying now too.  
"He wanted to kill me Kyle! He was going to kill me! I just panicked. What the fuck else did you expect me to do?" His whole body is heaving now, and his hands look like they're ready to embed themselves into the steering wheel they're clenched so tightly. He's trembling, and I notice I am as well.  
"You're going to be in deep shit dude! I always knew you were on the verge of seriously fucking up, I just didn't think it'd happen so soon." Wow, I didn't just say that. Fuck, I'm an asshole, why'd I just say that. No fucking shit Sherlock, of course he's in deep shit, was I thinking they were going to shower him with sugar candy gum drops with titty sprinkles? And I don't really think he's ever really fucked up, maybe I'm just jealous of him. Christ, I should be shot.  
The air is dead between us for several moments. I couldn't tell you if it was 30 seconds or 30 minutes, my mind has lost all perception of time. I close my eyes, and for a second it's just me and Stan and his Buick and the din of the storm and wiper blades and the purr of the engine, and for a moment I try to find some comfort in the situation. From what I can tell, there is none.

"Stan." I flinch at the shattered silence. I feel unworthy of speaking at this point, but I need to apologize. The poor kid's been through enough. "Stan, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."  
Come on, come oonnnn, respond damn it, preferably with an "APRIL FOOLS LET'S GO TO BENNIGANS!" I don't think I'm going to get that lucky.  
"No."  
"What do you mean no?"  
"I mean you're right. I am a screw up; I've been screwing up every day of my life for the past three years. Why couldn't I have just listened to my conscious like you?"  
True, I had an oversized moral compass, but if anything it just impaired me from getting out there and enjoying my life. That coupled with the fact I'm a pussy.

"Stan.." There goes my voice again.  
We sit for another interminable silence. I truly don't know what to say, and I take a solemn moment to reflect and try to gather what is left of any of my logical and coherent thoughts.

Do I really think Stan is a screw up? I don't think so. I mean, true, he's done some things I'd never even consider doing, but he's entitled to make his own decisions. And he's a good guy; he's never once been a bad friend to me. Well, not in our post pubescent years anyway. But, now he's telling me he's murdered someone, and even if it was in self defense, he was breaking the law to begin with. It's just the nature of his work. Shit, I'm really confused. I know Stan's a good guy, I know he is…

It's been about 5 minutes and neither of us has said a word, and I've yet to refute Stan's "no" regarding my previous statement. I should, but it's been too long. And I'm pretty sure Stan knows I don't really think he's a fuck up. I hope he doesn't…

I notice the storm has subsided, and a thick layer of fog has engulfed our car. I can tell we've been going uphill for quite some time now, but I'm completely clueless as to where we are. Everything is obscured by the night, and I suddenly feel scared. Not scared of the dark per se, but more of the unknown. I feel alienated, even with Stan sitting an arms length away. Suddenly, I'm overcome with a sickening notion that I am alone.


	3. Sympathy

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

We've been driving almost three hours now, but the tension in the air still hasn't dissipated. I marvel at the fact my parents haven't yet made an attempt to contact me. They're certainly in bed by now; I guess they just assumed I was too. I'm wondering if they'll even notice my absence, it's not rare that I go days without acknowledging them, simply because of school and their jobs and their preoccupation with my younger brother. I'm not concerned about that. I have bigger things to worry about.

"Kyle." Stan's voice startles me. I look at him, making sure he did in fact just speak and that I didn't just hallucinate.

"Yes?" I squeak, fearing even the wrong tone of voice will send him back into remission and we'll have to endure another hour of unbearable quiet.

"I'm sorry."

I try think of an appropriate response that won't seem too terse or depreciate the seriousness of the situation, but that at the same time won't sound completely gay.

The best I can come up with is "Dude, don't worry about it. Really."

He looks at me and smiles slightly, and I reciprocate the gesture. I let out an audible sigh, and I feel relieved.

"You've got to be really tired by now; you can go to sleep if you want." Stan says to me yawning.

"Dude, I think you're the tired one. Besides, after all of this I think the last thing I'd be able to do is fall asleep. Where are we anyway?"

"West."

"Well that's chock full of help right there." I remark.

"Yeah, sorry. Honestly, I'm not too sure. I know an hour or so we drove through Eagle, but I haven't seen a sign in a while. Or at least not one with the name of any place I recognize."

So much for settling the nerves. But part of me feels contented, and I decide to ignore any anxiety and just go with the flow. I know I'm safe with Stan.

He yawns again, and I can tell he's exhausted. "Want me to drive?" I offer, but he shakes his head.

"Nah, I'm fine. But we're getting low on gas, so I'm stopping at the next gas station I see. Plus I have to use the bathroom."

I nod, hoping a gas station actually exists out here in East-Bumfuck. I look out the window, surveying what I can distinguish of the landscape. The fog has cleared, and the shadowy silhouettes of evergreens stand still like hitch hikers along the road side. A guard rail is all that keeps us from plummeting down what I assume to be a long distance down an embankment to our left. It must be lonely to live all the way out here…

The screeching of tires snaps me from my thoughts, as I feel myself jolt forward and the seatbelt press into my chest. The car comes to an uncomfortable halt, and I hear something thud against the Buick. Stan and I look at each other, our eyes wide and mouths hanging agape.

"What the hell was that?" I say between breaths.

"I don't know…this thing just darted out in front of me dude. Oh god, I hope I didn't kill that too."

Stan always did have a soft spot for animals, as did I, but perhaps to a lesser extent.

"Wait. Dude, don't go out there by yourself, I'll come with you."

"Aiight. There should be a flashlight in my backseat somewhere, grab it will ya?"

Stan shuts his door leaving me in darkness. I feel around the ceiling of the car trying to find a switch to turn on the light, but after a couple seconds I give into my laziness and just continue to poke around in the dark. My hands migrate to a duffle bag, which I instinctively start to rummage through. I feel a sharp pain course through my hand and I withdraw it. "Fuck, what the hell was that?" I hold my hand for a moment whimpering, and then continue to search the backseat. Bingo. I flick the switch, and the flashlight casts an eerie orange glow in the cabin of the car. I can see my hand is bleeding slightly, and I point the light at the duffle bag to see what it was that had jabbed me.

I gasp and my eyebrows furrow in disgust at what I see. Needles of some kind, what I'm assuming to be heroin injections, litter the bottom of the bag. Several other bags, each with different white to clear substances are stuffed into side compartments. I'm suddenly pissed. No, I'm beyond that.

I knew Stan was a drug dealer, but if this is any indication, it appears he hasn't quite kicked the habit himself yet. Plus, from my knowledge the worst he's ever done was coke, and he tells me that was only once. Oh god, I'm livid right now.

I slam the door shut, and I try to suppress my rage as I approach Stan. I tell myself I should give him the benefit of the doubt, at least for now. Maybe he can provide an explanation, and it better be a real fucking good one. Shit, and things were starting to look up. Ok…I just need to keep my cool and pretend it never happened. Deep breaths, deep breaths…

"It's still alive." Stan says to me, and I cast my flashlight on what I realize is an injured fawn."

"Well, that's good I guess." My thoughts diverge from my anger as I look into the terrified creature's eyes. It's shaking and trying in vain to move its legs, but they only flail about awkwardly. Blood is pooling around its right flank, and I already know this isn't going to end well.

"We're going to have to put him down." Stan says. His eyes are transfixed on the little animal, and it's obvious he's sympathizing for it. I'm suddenly feeling sympathy too, not just for the fawn, but for Stan.

Neither Stan nor I handle death well. Sure, we've been exposed to it countless times, but we never really were desensitized towards it. I don't want to perform the task of ending this thing's life anymore than Stan, but I know it'd take a burden off of his back he sure as hell doesn't need.

I kneel down besides Stan on the cold pavement. Our breath is clear on the night air, and I shiver slightly as a gust of wind swoops up from the valley. I put my arm around Stan, and I can feel he's shaking too. He rests his head on my shoulder, and we share a solemn moment together.

I look into his eyes, and they have this wise sort of expression in them. One that conveys empathy and sorrow, as if he knows all of the cruelty's of the world. "Why don't you go sit in the car?" I whisper patting him on the back." He nods and walks over to his Buick, which I realize he has turned off, probably to conserve what little gas we have left.

I bend down and scoop up the trembling fawn in my arms. I talk to it, telling it its turmoil will soon be over. I lay it down in some grass off the shoulder of the road, thinking of how I'm going to execute this. (Pardon the pun.) It's dark and creepy over here, that's for sure, and…what the hell was that!?

I whip around, and see Stan's shadowing outline hovering over me.

"Holy crap dude you almost gave me a heart attack!" I hiss.

"Just figured you might want this." Stan says, and he hands me some cold metal object. I grapple it around its cylindrical part, and I realize it's a gun. Shit, since when does Stan carry _a gun_ with him?

Before I can say thanks I hear the door shut and he is back in his car. I cock the weapon and get ready to aim it into the animal's head. Oh god, I can't do this. At least I can't see its face in the dark.

I'm about to pull the trigger when I stop myself. I'm forgetting something. I bend down again over the animal, and I bow my head and clasp my hands. I say a prayer to Moses, and then extend my hand onto its head. It seems to have stopped trembling, and I shine my light onto it to make sure. It's lying there, still now, and I realize it has gone in peace. I let out a long breath of relief, and I'm thankful nature had taken its course before I had to intervene.

I scuffle back over to the car and get in. I hand the gun to Stan without looking at him, and before he has a chance to ask I tell him that it died before I could finish it off. The car revs to life and we are on the road again. My head leans up against the window with my eyes aiming past the mountainous horizon up at the stars. They're heavy from the long day, and I feel my lids starting to close. Slowly I let myself drift off to sleep as I contemplate the world and where Stan and I fit in with it all.


End file.
